


Immortality

by AdrianVoer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also some pain play, Canon Compliant, Erotica, F/M, Impregnation if you're into that, It's not a big deal if you're not, Mostly I just thought this is totally a thing that would happen because of a Shakespeare quote, There aren't people who didn't see this pairing, What else were you expecting from Bellatrix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianVoer/pseuds/AdrianVoer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellatrix Lestrange is well-known to be exceedingly loyal to Voldemort, well past simple political agreement. The fact that she has a husband never seems to bother these insights into her character.</p><p>Nor does it really bother her when it comes to her feelings on the matter.</p><p>Voldemort is well-known to be obsessed with immortality, as an addendum on top of his horrible genocidal mania. His exploration into one kind of immortality never stopped him in the texts from seeking others.</p><p>He also is willing to find such sources of immortality in any place one might present itself.</p><p> </p><p>I don't write fanfiction very often--I mostly write fiction in my own settings, but this seemed like a fun avenue of exploration. I hold no grudge against other pairings (in fact I generally prefer romances broad enough to include more than two) but I'm not unwilling to write any given flight of fancy. And this one came across as surprisingly likely to have happened given the characterizations of these characters, as a bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortality

“Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,  
Leaving thee living in posterity?”  
—Sonnet 6, Shakespeare

Spring of 1981. During the First Wizarding War.

Bellatrix Lestrange had always had a general desire to grow long nails. Long, pretty nails that she could paint and coif to her heart’s content, also useful in close quarters. No effective duelist discounted the importance of being able to physically hold one’s own—a wand slapped away worked as well as Expelliarmus, after all. And what could be more satisfying than digging a lovely long nail into the eyes of your defeated victim, as they thrash under your Cruciatus Curse?  
Sadly, instead of being able to grow long nails, she bit them constantly, and she blamed that on the fact that she was married to this lout. Rodolphus Lestrange. Good blood history. Also a Death Eater. That’s all she had really needed when choosing a husband. But she had never loved him. She hadn’t thought that would be a problem, but after years of being continually shacked up in the same damn room together, even after he’d learned to stop expecting anything from her, he was still so damn annoying.  
“Does this robe look wrinkled to you?” Rodophus’ voice always sounded like he was grumbling about something.  
Bellatrix didn’t answer immediately. She was looking at herself in the mirror. Not in vanity—of that Bellatrix had little, she was too much of a doer to care much how she looked—and indeed, she lifted her left ring finger to her lips and watched the ragged edge appear as she ripped.  
She dropped the spent nail on her palm and examined it for a moment, before glancing in the mirror at the robe, midnight black and perfectly ironed. “Do I look like a domestic to you? You’re the one who gives a shit about your robes.”  
She saw him disappear back to his side of the room out of the corner of her eye. Perhaps she should be nicer to him. She played with the nail scrap between her fingers. He was a pureblood fighting on the right side, and in a world of pretenders and idiots that was a valuable thing. He clearly meant well, was just trying to make it less awkward between them by making conversation.  
She got up, letting the scrap fall ignored to the floor, and swept wordlessly out the door. This was her house, after all. She had every reason to enter the master bedroom when she needed to. Even if the Dark Lord was staying in it.  
Especially if the Dark Lord was staying in it.  
It was absolutely no secret, she thought as she listened to the quick clipping echos of her footfalls on the walls of the halls, to anyone, even outside of the Death Eaters, what Bellatrix felt for the Dark Lord. It wasn’t difficult to find a girl in the world, even many men, who were perfectly willing to say that Voldemort was a gorgeous man. His flowing deep brown hair was kept in perfect order, his face masculine with just a touch of feminine sharpness. He always walked with perfect posture, head held high, allowing his tall frame to express its full beauty. He did not remotely look his age, in his early fifties; his obsession with immortality expressed itself in more ways than one. He knew his purpose, his value to the world, and he looked it. Even the most repulsive mudblood wench should be able to admit, that was attractive in the extreme. To Bellatrix’s mind, he was easily the most eligible bachelor in England. Not to put too fine a point on it, but who in the world would make a better choice? Yet he never made any indication of interest, in anyone outside of the business of the cause.  
She stopped in the hallway right outside the door to the master bedroom. There was a light on inside, she could see light under the doorframe.  
What was she here for? The Dark Lord was not the kind of man who took lightly to his time being spent unnecessarily. But then, nor was Bellatrix the type of woman who often hesitated to do anything. Perhaps it was precisely because Voldemort was someone for whom Bellatrix’s usually decisive expectations found exceptions that her emotions followed.  
She didn’t reach for the door handle, and was still not certain if she was staying or going when the door swung open.  
“Lestrange.”  
The Dark Lord was sitting at the desk, writing a letter, a snow white owl standing ready. He was as beautiful as ever, clad in deep blue dress robes over a green vest with a white shirt, his pale face shining in the slightly green-tinged light of his wandtip. He finished a line before turning to give his full attention to the woman at the door.  
Suddenly feeling very much that this room was not her property at all, Bellatrix looked at the floor, where it transitioned from the stone of the hallway to the hard wood of the master bedroom. “My Lord, I…”  
She could hear Voldemort walking towards her before she saw him. Then she saw and felt a fist gently lift her face towards his. She was irrationally disappointed when her raised gaze showed him not nearly close enough to hope for a kiss. Stupid of her. She knew how this worked. She was simply his vassal, not his lover. It’s not as though he’d ever expressed a drop of interest in her.  
Nonetheless she found her lips speaking. “My Lord, I was simply walking the halls and wondering if you would like any company. You work so long, and so hard. Surely you wish you had someone to talk to. While I don’t consider myself on your level, I would certainly like to strive to be, if you…” but her voice failed her once again.  
“You seek my secrets, Lestrange?” Voldemort asked with enough of a smile in his voice to quell some of the fear the question induced. His voice was…like cool, misty air, of the kind which warms rather than chills.  
Bellatrix smiled a little and said, “I am sure we all have our secrets, my Lord, which we are loathe to part with. I simply wish to know if there is anything my Lord needs from his loyal servants beyond simply their wands. And I know that I would love to provide any such service, as I always feel that I learn so much whenever I’m in your presence.”  
The Dark Lord turned and walked slowly to the window. Halfway there, without stopping, he turned his head halfway to see her, and beckoned her to follow with a tilt of his head. She strode in quickly. Where had what she said come from? Had she been preparing for this?  
When she arrived at the window, she found the pace of her thoughts building. Faster and faster, every moment she’d ever spent with her master burned through her mind; the first time older Slytherin friends of hers had gone to Hogsmeade to visit the rising star, how impressed she’d been with his rhetoric, not just his rhetoric but his actual action, her admiration growing for the controversial man eventually into lust, even love, if such a thing was possible at such different levels of power.  
She probably hadn’t been the first witch to invent a spell to create a magical buffer around her wand like a phallus, to fill the emptiness she sometimes felt in her cunt. Every time she did these days, she thought of Voldemort.  
And here they were, what they were calling the Dark Rebellion in full swing. With the Aurors having just been given permission to use Unforgivable Curses, the playing field was just slightly evened, and though Bellatrix had trouble admitting it to herself, she was worried. She had no more desire to die than Voldemort famously did. Not that she didn’t believe they could win, that they could overthrow the Ministry and replace it with a new and better system, prioritizing blood and structure over weakness and flip-floppery—but Bellatrix was a practical woman. It would have been irrational not to fear. She wanted something to hold on to, something she knew would mean something still if she fell.  
The flood of thoughts ended, and her posture deflated for a moment. Gasping for air, bracing herself against the window, she realized she’d been—subtly—the focus of the Dark Lord’s Legimency. Surprisingly to her, her first reaction was not of anger of her considerable Occlumency skills having been circumvented, but rather of extreme relief that she had not used them. She had every reason to fear opposing the Dark Lord of course—he was her master, and obviously more magically adept than her by far—but she was also glad that there had been a way for the Dark Lord to see who she was without needing to thrust it upon him.  
“Interesting,” Voldemort murmured, still staring out the window, as he had been when Bellatrix had approached him.  
He turned and gestured to a chair, but remained standing himself. “Why is it, Bellatrix,” her heart jumped as she sat—Voldemort had never addressed her by her first name before, “that you and your husband have no seeming interest in a child? Your sisters—well, Narcissa is pregnant now, and of course Andromeda had that half-breed. Both, I have gathered, follow a long line in your family of maternal values.”  
Bellatrix twitched her finger on her battered dress. It was a bit of a sore point, though not one she’d spoken of before. With anyone. But this was the first thing the Dark Lord asked her about after seeing all of that? What did it mean? “I…” she hesitated, knowing that even if she desired to hide the truth now, the Dark Lord could easily take it from her. “My Lord, you are aware of how few women become Death Eaters. It is a hard life, which prioritizes the work above all else. Not that I would not be honored to raise children into your service, but it is no coincidence that Cissy never took the robes and mask.” She thought briefly of Andromeda; Bellatrix’s heart, at present light and fluttery, took a brief turn for cold. Traitor. Filth. How she could stand to call herself a human being after letting that cock made of shit and mud into her body still escaped Bellatrix.  
“The truth, my Lord,” she continued, steeling herself to say more than she had ever told anyone, “is that if I saw my husband as noble enough stock, I would gladly bear the double burden of being a Death Eater in your service and being a mother. But I have always seen Rodophus as a partner, a match, perhaps a friend, rather than a man I love. This is no secret. When we were still sleeping together, we did not use birth control, but four times I used an Abortion Charm to remove fetuses from my womb.”  
Voldemort listened carefully and silently to her words, hands clasped behind his back. When she was finished, he twitched his wand and sat on hardened air directly across from her. “I admire your candor. You know that I hesitate to play favorites with my acolytes, but the truth is that you have always been my most loyal servant. I would be happy to train you as a last, best lieutenant. There is much that I know that I can teach, if I have a student willing and loyal enough.”  
This was beyond Bellatrix’s wildest dreams. For once in her life she wished she was wearing her finest, a spotless dueling outfit, and that she had done something with her mane of wild black hair. The realization that right now, a moment important to your life is transpiring had always been one that Bellatrix savored—perhaps that was why she was so proficient with Unforgivable Curses. Those three always changed the one on the receiving end of them. Though she would always have affection for the Cruciatus. Death was too clean, and the Imperius Curse, while haunting, was not nearly as visceral a memory. But nobody forgot the Cruciatus Curse for as long as they lived, and live they still would. And now, if she worked hard enough, was faithful enough—she could learn much more. She’d always secretly wondered if there were more than three deserving of the title.  
She bowed her head. “Thank you. I will do everything to earn my place as that student, master.”  
The Dark Lord smiled. “Good.” He leaned back, bracing himself against air, and placed his hands in his lap. Looking…expectant.  
She raised her head, nervous. “My Lord?”  
“My mind is not all you came here tonight seeking. You even said as much, if vaguely.”  
Bellatrix tried to ignore the pounding of blood through her head. That was good pure blood, it should help her think faster than this! “I…what are you…looking for, my Lord?”  
“I want you to say it. You’re a Slytherin, too, my dear, you know what you want and you have the means to get it. I want you to dig deep into your Slytherin nature and find what it is that you must say and do in order to achieve your heart’s greatest desire.” The amusement on his face and dripping from his voice simultaneously paralyzed Bellatrix and made her suddenly feel as though she could not possibly sit still.  
Her mouth opened, but it took a moment for anything to come out. “Surely you know by now how I feel about you, my Lord. I had not thought to ask—my feelings are of no importance to—”  
“You were not watching my mind as I read yours, but if you had, you would have seen an extraordinary thing, a thing which does not often happen. You convinced me of something I had not before considered. I seek to outlive the world, but I am no idiotic idealist, convinced that I cannot err. I have gone further than you can possibly imagine in the pursuit of immortality, and yet the most traditional method, if a little sentimental and flawed, is not without…merits.”  
He paused to collect his thoughts, not something Bellatrix often saw from the Dark Lord. Usually he isolated himself, possibly preparing himself for every eventuality, for hours, even days at a time, emerging and enacting his own agenda upon his followers and inflicting it upon his enemies before withdrawing once again into hiding. Bellatrix did not consider herself a sentimental woman, but she had been studying Tom Marvolo Riddle closer than perhaps anyone else, for longer than anyone except perhaps Dumbledore, that deluded old fool.  
She closed her eyes, feeling the Dark Lord’s gaze upon her. He was giving her time to think, but still every moment felt like time was ticking away, that if she didn’t say what was needed right now the moment might never come. But what did he want to hear? What was he asking?  
He was asking what it was she wanted. She didn’t often consider her own desires, in truth. She was a woman who followed orders and trusted those orders with her whole heart, and that was all she wanted to do. To serve what was right and good, no matter how brutal the methods or what she had to become in order to be perfect in the execution of those orders.  
To serve him. To be a vassal to him. To give her wand, her knowledge, her body, her life, to this man.  
The pursuit of immortality…  
She opened her eyes wide and looked at him. “You want me to bear your child,” her voice more breath than timbre.  
Voldemort raised a hand and one finger. “Whether I do or do not want that is not what I asked. What is your greatest desire?”  
Bellatrix took a deep breath. Incredible how hard it is to say what it is one desires in plain speech. As a Slytherin, as a student, as a follower, as a woman especially, she’d always been spat on for having opinions and desires, called bossy or a bitch.  
Here was a man who wanted nothing more—in this moment, of course, she couldn’t possibly think she was particularly of value to him in his day-to-day planning—than for her to tell him her greatest desire. This was the mark of a true leader. If Bellatrix had ever had a doubt of his abilities to achieve everything, she took a metal spike to it and squished it into a fleshy, frothing pulp in that moment.  
At a whisper, her eyes closing on the first syllable, she said “I want to bear your child. I want to be the vassal for your legacy. I want my womb to provide your seed with the nourishment of my body on which to feed and grow to become a mirror of you, to doubly secure the immortality I already have no doubt you will achieve.”  
She opened her eyes to see the Dark Lord smiling kindly. “There. That’s a good girl.”  
A storm of emotions flooded her stomach at that. Good girl? What did that mean? Should she be offended, feel less for it?  
Then Bellatrix thought, for a man such as Voldemort, perhaps that’s how he sees the rest of humanity. Literally, all but him were mere mortals, an affliction he would, in the end, avoid. The Ministry, the Death Eaters, the general populace that formed Voldemort’s battleground, were no more than schoolchildren to him, desperately learning what they could but usually unaware of how blasted little they really knew. If Voldemort was a man, indeed she was but a little girl—if a good one, serving him as she did. A font of joy sprung within her. She was one of the lucky few. A good girl. Perhaps, if this was going where she hoped, the luckiest of all.  
“Up,” Voldemort commanded. Up she went, rigid as a board.  
He inspected her from head to toe. He’d looked at her before from head to toe, as a general does inspecting a soldier. But was it now different? Was he still not a general, and she not still a soldier—merely working a different angle of the battle? Once again she wished that tonight she had put as much work into how she looked as she did into her dueling form.  
“I confess I haven’t thought of you in this way before, but you really are an incredible specimen of humanity. Clear skin, excellent constitution, healthy ratios of body fat and musculature. I suppose I’m not putting these in the most romantic possible phrasings, forgive me,” the Dark Lord chuckled a bit. The look on his face projected self-awareness, but not a drop of self-consciousness. He didn’t need any. It didn’t matter at all to Bellatrix. In truth she was pleased he didn’t use regular compliments—Rodolphus had been very adept with those in his day, and they’d been pleasing, but the Dark Lord was wasting no thought on unnecessary simpering. He had every right to inspect her more or less as breeding stock, she was entirely aware that her womb and her pureblooded DNA was all that was of real import. Yet he might be intimating that he was willing to try a more conventional arrangement, if she wanted it, though she had no right to even hope for such.  
“It would be wrong of you to sink to any level below yourself, my lord, and it is you who chooses to view me for my genetic traits, and as very well you should. If it would please you to learn more romantic language, I would be…more than honored to aid you in honing that skill. But I ask nothing of you beyond that you use me as you see fit, on the battlefield and off. I want to be nothing more than an extension of your will, my mind and its contents and my body and its contents my gifts to you.”  
She felt as though perhaps the time had come to stop wondering where these thoughts and feelings were coming from. They were truer words than she felt she’d ever spoken. She needed nothing for herself. What she needed was the Dark Lord’s will to fill her, to make her pregnant with both directives and child, for her to carry to term to the best of her ability. If he graced her with his child she would immediately go to Diagon Alley at first convenience and buy every book with any possible information about how to craft the Dark Lord’s fetus’ time spent in her womb to be as ideal as she could possibly be, nutrition, physical movement, spells to ensure no complications in utero.  
It occurred to her briefly that she was exhibiting some symptoms of the Imperio Curse. She didn’t think it was the case—she’d be an exceptional case if that were true, since she made many decisions without the input of the Dark Lord every day—but it wasn’t impossible either. Somehow this only excited her more, an impulse she wasn’t sure whether to suppress or not.  
He lifted a finger and spun it around. Instantly she turned to show him the back of her body. She wished she wasn’t wearing these clothes. They were not what was needed of her right now. She considered. “My Lord?”  
“Yes, Bellatrix?” he answered.  
“You would be able to see better without…” It sounded ridiculous now that words were attached.  
But her master’s voice soothed her. “Without what, my dear?” She wondered if he had a charm in his voice with similar effects to Veritaserum—how she wished her uncertainties and fears would not sully her so!—but more likely he wasn’t. For this, for determining the needs of his servant, he had no need for such.  
“Without my dress?” She wanted to flay herself for the weakness in her voice. She was no mouse! She was a servant, a soldier on a battlefield!  
She focused her gaze straight ahead, trying to make her posture even stiffer than it already was; but before she knew what was happening, she felt her body melting into a warmth she had never known before. The Dark Lord was pressing his body against hers, and here, this close to him, she felt no need to be anything but a limp rag doll before his will.  
She had had sex before plenty, been intimate before, arguably loved before too, and she had enjoyed it, but this—this was entirely different. This was right. Bellatrix giving her body to the Dark Lord was not so much an explorative, mutual exchange of feelings and needs—it was justice.  
She tried to right herself for her master to feel against his chest what perfect posture she had, but he placed a heavy hand against the small of her neck and pressed, hard, pushing her back to the empty wobbliness at his first arrival. She fell, trusting, fully expecting herself to crumple to the floor, she had done wrong, she had not done his will, she deserved to collapse to his feet—but his other hand instantly snaked to her waist and caught her as all of her muscles released their tension at once. He held her as easily as a washer holds a dishrag.  
“Bellatrix—my servant, my most loyal of Death Eaters,” he crooned, a tone she’d never heard him take before and yet loved instantly, as he played numerous magical fingers across her back to massage and release the knots of tension in her muscles. “Do not fear. There is nothing that I expect of you that you will not give me, or that I cannot take as quickly and easily as I did your thoughts just a few moments ago. I know you want to keep nothing from me, to show me your best, and I admire that in you. Nonetheless do not think that here, alone, with me, your best is defined by how straight you stand, how cautious your language, how immediate your responses. Your perfection is inherent to yourself, to every hesitation, every hope, every desperation to not make a mistake you have made before. It is in your pliancy to me that you are perfect, not your rigidity. You have many sides to you, my dear. I need your rigidity for destroying the enemy—not for carrying my child.”  
He placed her gently on the master bed—she no longer had any doubts about who that bed belonged to—and she opened her mouth to beg forgiveness, before realizing that was exactly what he had said she did not need to do. She simply needed to let him do as he would with her and interfere as little as possible. He would get what he wanted from her whether she erred or not. It would be best to acknowledge her mistakes as she made them in order to eradicate that inherent in her which had made them, rather than cloud her perceptions of them with useless fears.  
A gasp burst from her mouth. Pleasure did not so much ripple through her body as blast slowly through it, almost more than she could stand. Almost. She gripped the bedclothes in a silent scream, shaking in something akin to agony.  
“What do you think of that?” The Dark Lord asked. “I call it the Philiatus Curse, very similar in form and function to the Cruciatus Curse. It hyperstimulates every measureable source of pleasure in the body, yet is not exactly what is generally considered a pleasurable experience for most. It serves little purpose in duels which the Cruciatus Curse doesn’t perform better, but it is at the very least a interesting curiosity, and I think I may have finally found a use for it.”  
Bellatrix, her brain slowly dulling in capability to understand speech once more, wondered frantically what this meant. It seemed he had no interest in wasting time by doing only one thing at a time, which was well. He was teaching her at the same time as taking her, and it seemed the experience would not be one she would ever forget.  
She opened her eyes to find Voldemort on top of her, arms planted on either side of her, gazing at her with fascination. She stared as his robes peeled themselves off of his body as an orange is peeled, before reassembling themselves and hanging neatly on a chair. She drank in his form—tall, pale, strong body, muscles in his chest and stomach clenched to stay in position over her, his cock, half hard already, with a slight bend to the left, impossibly smooth.  
He lifted a hand and, with one finger, traced a line down the front of her dress, slicing it open as it went. He slid down the bed enough to cut all the way down to the bottom of her dress. He climbed back atop her and, silently meeting her gaze eye to eye, cut the straps of her dress and threw it open with a wave of his hand, and more of a breeze than was strictly necessary, but easily enough to fluster her slightly.  
Should she move? Should she do anything, demonstrate her need, or simply submit herself totally to his pace? She could feel herself dripping, and she knew he could tell from either her mind or her body how much she desired this, but surely he didn’t want a dead fish.  
Bellatrix lifted her hands above her head and twisted her body about just slightly, like a snake, to show off what she could, but her Master didn’t even look down. He just placed the finger that had cut her dress on her face, and traced it down her jawline with no magical effects—simply feeling that one, simple, unimportant aspect of her body.  
“Every part of you is important, Bellatrix,” Voldemort murmured. “Without every part of you, you would not be yourself, and it is the sum of who you are which led you to my door tonight.”  
He traced his finger down her body again, now nude underneath him. “You need not be afraid to touch me. I will not bite.” He smiled. “If I wish to hurt you, I have much more potent means.”  
Bellatrix felt a shiver in her spine—she knew it was a joke, but also extremely true—but she reached tentatively up to run her hands over his chest and back. The contact felt alien and perfect.  
Then the Dark Lord’s finger found her clitoris and instead of the slight burst of pleasure expected, a sudden stab of pain tore through her from his finger, and this time she did scream. It was excruciating, but she would not have screamed had she expected it.  
“What—why…” she began once she recovered, but he held up his other finger to his lips to hush her. It occurred to her that he was now levitating slightly to use both his hands.  
“This is a special occasion, for many reasons,” he spoke quietly, his voice deep, but casual as he returned his other hand to the mattress and resumed holding himself up. “Our first sexual connection, as well as the insemination of my first child. I would be remiss if I didn’t take every opportunity to make the experience as special for you as for myself. Trust in your Master. What do you feel?”  
Bellatrix felt fear tinge, but not negate, the arousal and anticipation in her body, and had to admit to herself that it was not an unwelcome addition to the medley of feeling. But in terms of the physical, Bellatrix slowly began to realize that the pain slowly fading from her body was being replaced incrementally by pleasure from Voldemort twirling her clitoris gently in circles, with no further magic applied, literally using her own body’s natural tools to beat back the magically inflicted pain. The last vestiges of agony were not yet gone from her abdomen when Bellatrix began to moan. It was nothing more than what she did to herself on an irregular basis, but the Dark Lord’s finger on her clitoris felt easily threefold more powerful than her own efforts could usually ever achieve.  
The Dark Lord smiled. “I have long observed the relationship between pain and pleasure. It seems without the one, the other is not as potent. Here,” he said with a kind tone, slowly wrapping his other hand around her throat and squeezing. “I would not want the effect to dissipate.”  
Bellatrix tried to gasp, but found herself unable to. Her mouth opened slightly and sputtering noises emerged from it as blackness began to cloud her vision. It was then that the Dark Lord leaned down to gently kiss her darkening lips.  
It wasn’t long before her body involuntarily resisted. Her hands flew up to flap ineffectually on her Master’s torso, to no avail, and eventually even those efforts were too much for her brain, which all the while was aware of a pulsing goodness from her cunt, slowly becoming the only thing her mind could focus on, even with extreme oxygen deprivation.  
Then he let go, and the pleasure in her sexual organs was temporarily overwhelmed with the joy of relief as she gulped the taste of oxygen once more.  
That relief then turned into exultation when she realized that her cunt was no longer empty. The Dark Lord’s cock was sliding slowly in and out of her, scraping the insides of her body, sending little flutters of pleasure dancing up and throughout, while his hand continued to work her clitoris.  
Bellatrix opened her legs. Yes. This was her purpose, more than anything else. She could feel that at the core of her being.  
She stared up at him, thoughts swirling on a rising hurricane of pleasure. She saw his intent now—and she wasn’t ignorant of the nature of pleasure and pain herself. She’d just never found anyone to implement those ideas with. “Master”, she murmured, as she wrapped her arms around him. He removed his finger from her clitoris, yet the pleasurable sensations from it continued as he wrapped his arms warmly around her. “Could you…”  
“Yes?” His breath on her ear was almost a tickle, a lovely faint sensation accentuating the almost overwhelmingly pleasurable fullness from her center.  
She took a deep breath. He wanted her thoughts, given freely. “Could you cast the Cruciatus Curse—on me, now?”  
He slowed in fucking her, just a bit, and she saw the gears turning in the machine of his mind. “I would not think that would accentuate pleasure by any stretch of the imagination.”  
“It won’t. It will shift every nerve in my body from the greatest contentment I have ever felt—which is what I feel now—to more pain than I have ever felt before. Do you know that I’ve never felt the Cruciatus on myself?”  
The Dark Lord cocked his head, and Bellatrix thought she noticed in the throbbing of her cunt his speed picking up—their combined fluids dripping everywhere now. “I didn’t know. All the more impressive given your skill with it.”  
“I want to know. And I want to shift from that pain back into this once more, if you are willing. I want the expectations of my body to be violated such that all that remains of me, for hours, is my trust in you. And, if we can—your child.”  
Her master’s face twisted slowly into a small smile. “I don’t usually like surprises. But you, it seems, are quite the exception.” He rolled beneath her, keeping up his pace, speeding it up even, slamming his cock into her cunt with real force now, jiggling her whole body with each impact. She was still wrapped in his arms, but now he pushed her up so he could see her breasts bounce in opposite time with her movements.  
He almost seemed to hesitate, a release of breath like a gasp escaped him as he beheld her from beneath her. She looked down at herself, then inextricably continued the line of sight up the Dark Lord’s chiseled abdomen, his chest, shoulders, to the beautiful face. He seemingly waited for her to look at his lips before his smile curved into mouthing the word, “Crucio”.  
As Bellatrix well knew, the Cruciatus Curse only worked when, in some deep way, you wanted to inflict your victim—or in this case, willing servant—with pain. Whether that desire was a careful construct of the Dark Lord’s mind now, or something a little more twisted, was impossible to know, or even consider now. A good Cruciatus Curse will produce screams of agony. No amount of willpower can change that. And the Dark Lord was as good as she; expecting this, she did not resist. Her last thought before pain overtook all her functions was that the sound of her screams of agony would sound much like ecstasy, and likely vice versa.  
With a crash, the building pleasure in her cunt, and indeed, every part of her touching the Dark Lord, and many other places besides, dissipated and were replaced with searing, ripping agony. She had not realized how much in pleasure her eyes had been in drinking in her master until they too felt as though they were being ripped from their sockets, as her nose was flayed, her mouth jabbed with a thousand needles, her arms burst from the inside and bound in ice all at once—everything she could imagine as pain, she felt, somewhere and everywhere.  
But the effect was slowly, torturously, being lifted. She could tell first by the feeling of cock still sliding inside of her, first interpreted as pain too, but quickly she realized that no, this was in fact different. If the rest of her felt as though she’d been submerged in scalding, boiling water, her master’s member was a healing salve, the pleasure slowly beating back the pain. Whether her eyes were closed or not she had not even been able to consider until the pleasure spread that far, and she discovered they were closed, and her position had changed.  
She was now lying flat on the bed, face down, her head slumped to one side. Her leg were spread, and she realized that much of the pleasure from her midsection was the simple joy of skin-on-skin contact. With him.  
She shivered. She knew what was happening, which did not reduce the effects. The shocks back and forth between pleasure and pain were pushing her gradually into subspace, numbing everything in her body and mind but that which was most strongly present. In this case, that was her master’s cock, reaching, ever reaching, for her womb. And her desire for him to reach it.  
She began to speak, and noticed that her words felt slightly drunken in her mouth. “Please. Sir, please.” Odd. It had seemed in her head she’d had more to say than that. She tried again. “I need you, master.” Was that what she’d meant to say, either?  
Voldemort bent over his servant and whispered in her ear once more, almost being flooded out of audibility by moans and grunts that Bellatrix realized were her own. “And, it seems—I you.”  
She placed her hands under her and pushed upwards instinctively, as though by pushing back onto him, she could pull the Dark Lord deeper inside of her. He pulled out of her briefly now, and allowed her to rise into doggystyle position, before pushing her shoulders and head back down into the bed and re-entering her, flooding her with a relief she hadn’t known she’d needed.  
Then his fingernails dug into her back, eight of them, four for each side of her ribs. It was a comparatively light piercing pain compared to what she had only just endured, but it grew, and grew as her master’s thrusts began to fill with a sense of urgency—if her pussy was capable of judging such things, that was what it was telling her. But it was growing impossible to focus only on that euphoria, as the pain in the eight points on her back grew and grew, beginning to feel as though the Dark Lord was channeling all the pain she’d had in the Cruciatus Curse into the tips of his fingers.  
Then, he dragged his nails down her back.  
She screamed again, and this time she really didn’t know if it was in agony or ecstasy. Then she was sure it was the latter, as she felt a reprise of what she knew now was the Philiatus Curse wracking her body again. It was significantly more intense now, it seemed, possibly because she was expecting something of the kind, possibly because she knew what to expect of it, and she leaned into the excruciation, allowed its ambiguously enjoyable power to be exactly what it was, neither good nor ill, but an extreme of another kind altogether.  
When her ability to process reality returned this time, the only shift in her location was up—specifically, that some of the back of her head was screaming from her hair being pulled in a really exquisite fashion, and she’d been pulled up by it, such that she was almost kneeling in an upright position in front of her master, facing away from him. His movements inside of her, instead of the speed she’d been expecting, however, were slow now, savoring—and she could feel his seed splashing inside of her vaginal canal.  
The pain of her scalp and pleasure of the stretching of her cunt were both powerful draws to her attention, physically. But the slight splashing against her cervix—she focused her drained mental capacities on that.  
That was important.  
There was, in fact, arguably nothing anywhere near as important.  
“Please,” she managed, “Need to keep it in.”  
She could only manage that simple wording, but it was effective enough. She felt her body being plucked up and turned around—both the points of pleasure and of pain slipping off, and leaving her in what felt a warm soup of humming satisfaction, but a little chilly. The Dark Lord placed her—by hand or magic, she didn’t know—on her back on the bed, with her legs propped up a little, so Tom Marvolo Riddle’s semen could leak down into her cervix more efficiently.  
She shivered a bit, and her face contracted a bit, her eyes squeezing shut and her mouth pursing. “Please, Master,” she murmured. She flapped her hands on her body a little.  
With some slight uncertainty in the motions, she felt a warm presence wrap his arms around her, lying next to her on her right.  
Yes, she thought, as the chilliness dissipated, leaving her only with comfort.  
This.  
Only this.  
Legs entwined with hers, entangling her with him.  
“I apologize,” Voldemort said quietly. “I confess I’ve not paid much attention to the finer points of intimacy. I know how to…deal…with my own urges in as clean and quick a fashion as possible, but the few times I’ve engaged sexually with someone else, honestly I’ve not enjoyed it much, possibly because I didn’t put much effort into enjoying it. With you, though, there was no question in my mind that I would—because I did enjoy it. Enjoy you. I don’t know how you became exactly the person I, of all people, needed, but it seems you have.”  
Eyes still closed, Bellatrix shifted against him, enjoying the simple feeling of their skin shifting against each others’. “I have nothing but a womb to give you.”  
“No,” she felt him shake his head next to her. “It’s not the womb that matters. Half of humanity has wombs, and there would be plenty of ways to convince any number of people to share theirs with me. My mother made the mistake of believing biology could make up for all sorts of things. Disinterest. Imperfection. Worst of all, blood. What you have is so much more than a womb. You have loyalty. You have genius. You have ambition, more than anyone I know other than myself, though yours you have enough control over to understand how to wield it into use in the organization I built upon my own ambition. You have a soldier’s focus. And, it turns out, you have a mother’s heart, which had simply not yet found its use. These are what make you special. Special to me, yes. But you are special in and of yourself. That your own uniqueness and individual choices lead you to choose to share yourself with me is a beautiful truth, which I shall do my best to honor. There are some things, as your general, that I must organize you away from. But as…your lover. And as your teacher. There is nothing I will hide from you. There is much you deserve to know.”  
“I want to learn,” she replied at a whisper. “And I want to share everything I have with you again. As much as you’ll have me.”  
“Then I will share what I have with you again as well.”  
Bellatrix didn’t think much of it as she lay there, her nude body entwined with that of her master, but a raw instinctual magic, born partly of her reduced capacity for rational thought and partly from the extremity of her devotion, released an egg from her ovaries and rushed it down her fallopian tubes to meet with the pool of sperm awaiting in her womb.  
She did place a hand over her stomach, finding her…lover’s…hand there. Tentatively she enlaced her fingers with his. He too, it seemed, was allowing instinct to dictate to an extent though, and his earlier hesitations did not lead him to resist resting his hand with hers.  
A slight fluttering of anxiety in her stomach gave her little clear information. It was pleasurable, it was satisfying, it was nervous to the point of painful.  
The combination was exactly right for her.  
She squeezed the hand of her master, her general, her teacher, her lover.  
She drifted off to sleep.

Whether that night or another, Bellatrix Lestrange was impregnated that spring by Tom Marvolo Riddle.  
The soon-to-be father was destroyed seven months later by the magical oddity and marvel of the reflection of his own Killing Curse, directed at the infant Harry Potter. He would return later due to his several Horcruxes, but as time went on, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Vincent Crabbe (unintentionally) and Neville Longbottom eventually destroyed each of Tom Marvolo Riddle’s vestiges of life, with the last functioning sliver of his soul being slain in another reflection of his own Killing Curse on May 2, 1998.  
As for Bellatrix Lestrange, her death is also known to have occurred that same day, May 2, 1998, at the hands of Molly Weasley. Much of the intervening time for her between the first slaying of her master and the Battle of Hogwarts was spent in Azkaban, in one of the longer stretches of time spent there with most of her sanity remaining intact afterwards endured ever, tied with several of her fellow death-eaters.  
When she was arrested soon after Tom Marvolo Riddle’s first fall, however, the Aurors taking her stunned body away to Azkaban noticed, to their astonishment, that the Death Eater lieutenant was seven months pregnant—the fact that none of them had noticed despite her continuing to fight for her cause wasn’t much spoken of, only quietly attributed to disbelief that someone could possibly be that vicious a duelist, torturer, and murderer while in the process of also creating and nurturing life, and thus the dismissal of all signs until the evidence lay before them.  
A quiet, informal discussion was held between the small group of arresting Aurors and the then-Warden of Azkaban. It was decided that the public image of Bellatrix Lestrange as an unambiguously destructive force was too necessary to allow the news of her imminent motherhood to spread, and potentially earn her even an iota of sympathy. At the same time, though, none suggested it would be at all moral to force Bellatrix Lestrange to abort the fetus—a violation of her bodily autonomy beyond what anyone in the discussion deemed remotely ethical, Death Eater or no.  
A Fidelius Charm was engaged regarding all who knew of the pregnancy among the group of Aurors, the Warden, and a carefully selected doctor, the sister of one of the Aurors. The charm was then forcibly extended to every Death Eater in Azkaban, including Bellatrix Lestrange herself.  
A month and a half later, alone in her cell (she did not alert anyone to the event as it occurred, as she viewed them all as her mortal enemies) she gave birth to a baby girl, whom she named Enigma. At the next prisoner check-in, she was found, chained in her cell, nursing the baby Enigma, cradling her, whispering to her stories of her father. Bellatrix Lestrange resented, though did not resist Enigma being taken away, claiming she had already had to summon a Patronus multiple times in order to keep Dementors away from the newborn. If this is true, Bellatrix Lestrange would be the only person ever to summon the willpower necessary to summon a Patronus while in Azkaban, a prison literally constructed to suck both the magic and the necessary hope to do so from its occupants. The Warden chalked it up to lies.  
For her part, Bellatrix Lestrange, until the Fidelius Charm, had accepted with a soldier’s stoicism the horrors of Azkaban, including the Dementors, but once she was told she would be unable to tell her master of the fate of their child upon his, to her mind, inevitable rise, she began to react violently and with rage to all who saw her. It is this image of a violent, rageful lunatic that, after giving birth, was captured eternally in a moving photograph, with no context given as to circumstances.  
Enigma was, indeed, removed from Azkaban, and put into the British foster system. The Warden, of course, did not tell anyone in that system of the child’s origin, nor even Enigma’s birth name.  
By the time of the Battle of Hogwarts and the deaths of her parents, Enigma would be seventeen years old.


End file.
